


on you we depend

by wildcard_47



Series: we watch the stars [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Accidentally Coming On Your Man's Face, Bang A Gong Get It On, Hair-pulling, Hint: It's Not An Accident If He Wants You To, M/M, Marathon Sex, Or At Least Science Officers Are, Oral Sex, handjobs, science is sexy, wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 07:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19204702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Taking down new measurements in the magnetic observation hut, Captain Francis Crozier and Commander James Fitzjames get a little distracted. It may or may not be the fault of an ineffable Grand Plan."Although Captain Crozier and Commander Fitzjames believed this conversation had spanned a mere fifteen minutes, in truth, this evolution of warm feelings was the work of some four hours, due to the fact that a particular ethereal being less than a quarter-mile away was reminiscing wildly about the sweetness of Valencian oranges and was therefore prone to losing minutes here and there in his haste."





	on you we depend

**1847**

**KING WILLIAM LAND**

**A TUESDAY**

**MAGNETIC OBSERVATION HUT**

 

 _Bloody fucking perfect,_ Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier grumbled to himself, as he updated the logs with the ship’s position. Unchanged eight months now. Of course Sir John would force him to spend time alone out here with James Fitzjames for days on end. Probably his punishment for avoiding _Erebus._ Or stinking of whiskey. He did not know and he really didn’t care to find out.

Sneaking a glance over at Fitzjames, Francis noticed the  _ Erebus  _ Commander was now staring down at his own coat front, picking some invisible detritus from the wool, and felt a surge of temper. “If you don’t stop going all moon-eyed over that damned greatcoat, I’m leaving.”

“I was not truly thinking about the coat at all,” protested Fitzjames. “Merely…well.”

He trailed off.

“Well, what?” snapped Francis, when no further words seemed to be forthcoming.

“Well, I am not particularly skilled at this, Francis. The observing. The waiting.” Fitzjames crossed his arms across his chest, then uncrossed them, looking annoyed. “And it all comes so naturally to you.”

“So?” growled Francis.

“Good Christ, man. I am attempting to pay you a compliment, not that you’ll take it.”

“You….” Francis trailed off, suddenly suspicious. “Why?”

“Why?” echoed Fitzjames. “Must there be a reason? You have a clear talent for magnetic sciences. I have noticed it. God knows others have, as well.”

“Not enough to put me in charge of them,” grumbled Francis.

“Fine. We — let us have a change of subject, then.” Fitzjames cast one arm out as if he were alone on a grand stage. “Have you ever dined à la Chinoise?”

“What,” drawled Francis.

“Chinese fare. You know, in one of your various destinations.”

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, no.”

Francis expected this odd question was to be a poorly-disguised segue into the Shangkiang story, so he was surprised when this turned out not to be the case.

“Oh, that is too bad. You would find them delightful, I think, given your time in the tropics. Soups and stews of birds'-nests, beche-de-mer, sea-slugs, and other delicacies. Patties of shrimps fried in pork-fat, salted and boiled eggs, and boiled and stewed vegetables. Salt, pepper, soy, and oil surrounding every part of the table. Warm wines in small metal pots and poured into tiny China cups…”

“Why the hell are you blathering on about Chinaman food, Fitzjames?”

“Well, I…I don’t know what sorts of fare Diggle is presently serving on Terror, but on her sister ship, Wall has been required to, ah, become rather more creative by the day.” A displeased noise. “And he is not a man well-suited to improvisational cooking.”

“Ah.” Francis let out a soft, amused huff, as he finally parsed what was making Fitzjames so damned annoying in close quarters. The man was hungry. Hungry and exhausted and out of his element, none of which he could admit aloud near the men. “Tired of biscuits, are you?”

“Oh, god. Unspeakably,” groaned Fitzjames, and put his head in his hands.

Francis actually smiled at the sight; it was rare for Fitzjames to act like a normal person, and not some twit-faced ponce eternally scheming for favor. It made Francis want to show a small gesture of kindness. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his flask of whiskey, and offered it to the other man.

“Drink?”

“Why not,” sighed Fitzjames, and accepted the flask, taking a large gulp before handing it back to Francis. “Thank you.”

“Imagine you haven’t had one since we left Greenhithe.”

“Well, I do enjoy a bit of rum in my quarters from time to time.” Fitzjames assumed a guilty look. “Although please do not share that with Sir John. I would hate for him to—well. Suffice to say he eats his share of experimental meals with gusto for someone who does not possess a strong tankard at their other hand.”

Francis made a face. “He didn’t have Wall do the turnip pudding, did he?”

“No. What on earth’s that?”

“This—hideous thing Cook used to make for us in Van Diemen’s Land. Completely flavorless, gelatinous, rather chewy. Bit of green parsley sprinkled on top.”

“Good god. Sounds utterly disgusting.”

“Well, it’s one of his favorites. Not sure why, unless it’s to do with the gout.” Francis passed the flask back to Fitzjames, who accepted it, and took another drink. “Think he even convinced  _ Terror’s _ cook to prepare it for us later _ ,  _ when we were South. Christmas Day.”

Fitzjames winced. “Not a very good way to celebrate the birth of our Lord.”

“No,” Francis agreed, as the flask was passed back.

“At first, I was hoping you meant turnip cake, which is another Chinese dish.”

“Oh. Any good?”

“Yes. Erm. Made specially for Chinese New Year. I’m given to understand that their word for the cake is a homophone for good luck in some other dialect. Hokkien or Malay or something. I know Malay shares a lot of the words, at any rate.”

Francis was still stuck on the idea of a turnip cake. Didn’t sound any good to him. “Is it a sweet cake, then?”

“Not like ours, no—naturally sweet. Meant to be eaten as part of the meal, with chili sauce and various other accoutrements. Although now you mention it, there was a true dessert cake I just loved. Little orange bits in it. Can’t remember the name, now.”

“Hm.” Francis passed the flask back to Fitzjames; their fingers brushed slightly as he handed it off. “I do like oranges. Ate so many in Rio I thought I’d never get scurvy again.”

“Rio?” Fitzjames glanced over with wide eyes. “When were—when were you there?”

“About eighteen thirteen.”

“Really?”

Francis had never seen Fitzjames appear so interested in a subject before, not even his own stupid stories. He had to clear his throat to speak, feeling pinned under Fitzjames’s intense stare. “Yes.”

“Tell me everything. Er. I mean—do you remember much?” Fitzjames’s eyes were fever-bright. “Were you there long?”

“Year or so, in the end. Don’t know what there is to tell. Didn’t have any grand adventures or get shot in the damn hip or anything.”

“No, no, I don’t care about any ridiculous stories.” Fitzjames gave him a pleading look now. “Just… tell me how it looked. How—how the people were. The food. Errant things. Ordinary things.”

Francis’s mouth fell open. He could hardly process what he’d heard. “You  _ don’t care  _ about the  _ ridiculous stories? _ ”

“No.”

“Good god, man! Have you died?”

“No! Francis, I don’t even care about the ones I tell, most days,” huffed Fitzjames, as if this should have been bloody well obvious. He reached out and balled up the sleeve of Francis’ slops into one fist, tugging insistently at the fabric. “Not even about the damn deeds, if you must know. It’s about—provoking good feelings. From people who can — forever further your career or crush it in one wiry liver-spotted fist. And you know how sailors like war stories. Especially when they’re old and—and washed up. An’ never did anything half so dangerous in th’ first place.”

Francis shot him a sly glance from under one raised eyebrow. Fitzjames didn’t just sound genuine. He sounded, oddly enough, like Francis himself, carping about how all the old fucking English bastards had only got their titles by licking the right sets of boots. “Wouldn’t be talking about a specific Lord of the Admiralty, would we, James?”

“What? No,” said Fitzjames—but too quickly, Francis noticed, even as the effects of the drink bubbled up in his own chest like a spring of soda water. Felt nice. Nearly like being warm. “No. Course not. ‘M—’s just a fact.”

“Obviously.”

“Anyway, I’d never be able to spin one as beguiling as your entire career.” Fitzjames gripped Francis’s jacket something fierce, now. “I mean, good Christ. The things you’ve done, Francis. You’re the best of Discovery Service.”

(It should be noted that although Captain Crozier and Commander Fitzjames believed this conversation had spanned a mere fifteen minutes, in truth, this evolution of warm feelings was the work of some four hours, due to the fact that a particular ethereal being less than a quarter-mile away was reminiscing wildly about the sweetness of Valencian oranges and was therefore prone to losing minutes here and there in his haste.)

Fitzjames’s hand ran down Francis’s forearm to grip at gloved fingers. “Don’t know why they don’t  _ see  _ it, Francis. You’re a better sailor than anyone else on this ship, and if you ever stopped—well, even if y’were—you could—outshine us all.” 

“Even you?” Francis asked coolly.

“Hundred times over.” Fitzjames’s eyes darkened as he met Francis’s steady gaze. His fingers traced over the line where Francis’s knit gloves ended and his knuckles began. “Truly.”

“But you don’t like me,” Francis said dully, as heat sparked to life in his belly. Fitzjames was not so much touching his fingers as he was caressing them; slowly, he lifted one of Francis’s hands to his mouth and kissed his curled fingertips. “You’ve never—”

“Has it not occurred to you,” murmured Fitzjames, “that perhaps I like you far too well?”

“You—”

Fitzjames opened his lips, then, took the tip of Francis’s index finger into his mouth, laving his tongue across the rough pad before taking it deeper. Suddenly, the curl of heat in Francis’s abdomen flared like a blaze through his entire body. His cock filled and strained against his many layers, the back of his neck seared hot with anticipation, and his twitching hands trembled against James’s jaw.

“Oh,” Francis gasped, as Fitzjames pulled off his left glove and repeated this obscene caress, the touch of his warm wet mouth unspeakably thrilling. The Commander was already panting; Francis could feel the cloud of Fitzjames’s warm breath fogging against bare skin. “Oh,  _ fuck _ .”

Groaning, Fitzjames let go of Francis’s hand, and immediately knelt down in front of him. Together, they yanked Francis’s slops open, then his trousers, then—

“Jesus fucking Christ,” hissed Francis, as Fitzjames got him out, stroked him a couple of times, and then leaned forward, taking him into his mouth. “ _ Fitzjames.” _

The  _ Erebus  _ Commander moaned at the sound and clutched at Francis’s hips through his smallclothes, causing Francis to yelp, and put one hand on Fitzjames’s shoulder. No one had ever done this for him before; the heat was overwhelming enough, but the way Fitzjames whined and sucked and licked as he pleasured Francis was even more so. One hand roamed across Francis’s stomach and chest and hips while the other toyed around the base of his cock.

Francis’s hand slid around the back of Fitzjames’s neck, then into those stupid curls, causing Fitzjames to shudder and pull off for a moment.

“Francis! Ah—again.”

Carefully, Francis wound his fingers into dark locks and tugged at James’s hair with a closed fist this time; James made a desperate noise in the back of his throat as he took Francis all the way in. 

“Fuck,” Francis hissed again, and bucked into James’s mouth.

It went quickly from there; Francis grunting and gasping and fisting James’s hair in both hands till the pressure welled up to a breaking point inside him.  He tried to warn James in time. “‘M close—James, I—”

James did not pull off, and Francis could not hold back. 

When he came, Francis yanked hard at James’s hair as James drank him down, only able to move enough to pull out and paint a few tiny streaks along James’s sinfully-red mouth before he collapsed backwards into his chair.

“Fuck,” panted Francis, still clutching at James’s hair. He was embarrassed to have lost control so viscerally. “I—I’m—”

“Wanted you to,” gasped James, and crawled into Francis’s lap, already tonguing away the last remnants of spend from his lips. Francis shuddered all over again as he felt James’s hardness pressing into his thigh, and quickly reached down to bring the man off, tugging hard and fast until James’s head lolled against his shoulder, and his body tensed, and his teeth dug into Francis’s jacket.

(It should be noted that time had gone a little squiggly again, thanks to the sinful mouth of a very skilled demon who was presently occupied with pleasing an angel.)

Later, collapsed on the floor amid the blankets they had been using to wrap their legs up, feeling as boneless and hot and sated as if he were on a tropical beach in summer, James finally turned to Francis. His dark curls were in disarray and a high flush was still in his cheeks.

“Morning already.”

“What?” The revelation should have bothered him; Francis just raised an eyebrow instead, and shook his head no. “Can’t be.”

James thrust his pocketwatch into Francis’s hands. 

Francis stared at it in clear dismay before he began to laugh. Just after six bells. “So it is.” He laughed even harder. “D’you mean to say we spent all bloody night—?”

“No,” said James immediately, but he was laughing, also, shielding his nose and mouth with one hand. Nearly twelve hours had passed since Francis had first thrust the now-empty flask of whiskey into his hands. “That would be—absurd. Unbelievably so.”

“Completely!”

“Thus, I refuse to believe it. We merely lost track of time after finishing our whiskey.”

Luckily, there was no need to suspend all disbelief. When the two officers finished their notes on magnetic experiments and finally returned to their ships, they found their respective crews equally refreshed and without any probing questions. Apparently the rest of their men, Sir John included, had all enjoyed a long sleep in which they dreamed about—of all things—crepes.

**Author's Note:**

> This concludes the Arctic Husbands saga. Our heroes go on to Do Their Thing, and a lot of Franklin Expedition midshipmen stop having weird dreams about crepes, at least for awhile. #rimshotfaminejoke #sorryguys
> 
> Glossary:  
> Six bells = [a measurement of time on a ship](https://www.westmarine.com/WestAdvisor/Ships-Bell-Time), or around 7AM in this case.


End file.
